


Two Fake Feds come up the laneway the other dayyyyyyy

by Theplanetprince



Category: Letterkenny (TV), Supernatural
Genre: Attempt at Humor, Canon-Typical Behavior, Comedy, Crossover, Explicit Language, Gen, One Shot, Short One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-16
Updated: 2021-02-16
Packaged: 2021-03-18 18:20:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,889
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29494221
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Theplanetprince/pseuds/Theplanetprince
Summary: (Heavily inspired from diblums crossover fic)Dean and Sam don't get many opportunities to travel abroad. Though rural Canada wasn't exactly a vacation.(I really wanted to roast Dean)(Strong language, I tried to get as IC as possible)
Comments: 5
Kudos: 23





	Two Fake Feds come up the laneway the other dayyyyyyy

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [A Fuss in the Barn](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11074359) by [diblums](https://archiveofourown.org/users/diblums/pseuds/diblums). 



> I think this speaks for itself. I might rewrite this to be longer and multi-chaptered when I have the time. But I'm busy with all my other incomplete fics. Don't expect this at all to be grammatically correct.
> 
> That being said-- I've never had a chance to watch SPN, and I wanted to see what the fuss was about. Uhhhhhhh... it's not really my thing. It feels like it should be my thing though? I suppose that's why we write fics. It's kind of hilarious though that Stuart was on both shows so I immediately tried to find anything on Ao3 and you guys never disappoint.
> 
> My partner who has been a SPN fan for years, was very excited when I started writing a SPN fic-- only to be immediately thrown by all the Letterkenny language. I zig when I'm supposed to zag.

With a creak of the brake and push of the clutch, Dean parked the impala at the end of the driveway. That driveway leading to the spacious farm, and what appeared to be an underperforming produce stand.

“So what's the score here?” Dean shook his brother’s shoulder, “three farmers after beating their wives get too into the liquor and awaken a vengeful spirit or--?”

The younger Winchester removed his nose from his father’s well-worn leather journal, “Uh… well from reading the screengrab of the forum, three Letterkenny farmers witnessed a pale bi-pedal creature attempting to devour the local cattle auctioneer Jim Dickinson.” Sam unfolded a piece of motel printer paper from the last stop over. He continued quoting the post with hesitancy, “but ‘since Jim Dickinson was such a big sunabitch--’ the creature only left superficial marks.”

“No stitches?” Dean nodded slowly. Surely it couldn’t be that easy. On his road trip from hell he had seen things that would shed a person of their bones in seconds. The boys weren’t in the boo-boos and ouchies department. Maybe because it had been such a slow week, anything sounded like a good hunt. Though this made him feel like he should narrow up the definition of ‘anything’.

“No stitches,” Sam confirmed. Unbuckling his seatbelt singlehandedly, not taking his eyes off the paper, “But there are six marks. Which might be our friends on the other side come calling to graze on these--” Always the hopeful, the younger brother tried to express something other than the stereotype, “these kind folks.”

“It took everything you had to not say ‘uneducated’, didn’t it, Stanford boy?” The older Winchester started his migration out of the chevy.

Sam crinkled his nose, snorting, “Trust me I don’t want to be in a town that smells like manure any longer than you do. So, pull up your big boy slacks and play nice.”

Wiping his nose, Dean adjusted his tie, “around these parts they’d call’em ‘breeches’.” He shut his car door, rounding the fence with his mastered ‘fed jog.’

There were three farmers, one muscular and stoic. The second round and surly. The third shy and small. The boys had gotten the address from a helpful waitress at the local watering hole ‘Modean’s’. She was a friendly sort, didn’t have any issue at all with answering questions. Easy on the eyes, which didn't hurt. They were still human for the most part.

Sam readily identified those farmers all sat on folding chairs in front of an unsanded and unpolished produce cart. Empty beer bottles were neatly tucked to the side of the cart to be disposed of later. However, the cigarette butts were not treated with the same respect. The folding chairs were low to the ground, and the men sat with a lackadaisical air about them. Talking amongst each other as if they didn’t notice the strangers that pulled up on their property.

The boys trotted up the gravel trail, producing their doctored badges from their suit jackets in a rehearsed tandem matter. Before Dean could open his mouth to list their fake credentials--

“‘Scuse me, kitten, be right with ya, we’re having a quarrel here,” The man with his plaid work shirt tucked into his high-waisted jeans spoke quickly, before glancing back to his friends.

The shortest farmer, clad in dark navy coveralls reeked of hay and cows-- which the brothers were downwind from. Though he seemed impassioned about what he was talking about asserting, “I’m tellin’ youse, I ain’t had any sneef-- but dogs should be able to vote for prime minister. Animals have like, a sixth sense about some folks... like that there fella Katy had ‘round not too long ago-- the one we all drove stateside to twist both arms outta their sockets?”

The fat farmer in the center between shortstack and high-waist, began to turn his gears and vocalize his opinions, “The ones that the cousins- say that he got all sobers off the pump and pound-- only to be cheating on Ms Katy with that rocket from Quebecs.”

Shortie mumbled out taking a drag from his cigarette, “Fuckin’ Quebec.”

All three farmers let out a unison groan, “Fuckin’ Quebec…”

High-waist leaned forward, urging, “Impolite to kiss and tell, Darry, especial’ly about Katy--” He gave a gruff, “pitter-patter.”

Sam shot Dean a look of befuddlement. Dean returned the look plus interest. Not only were they stunned at how little they censored their language, but just the fact that they didn’t even seem to be impacted by the traumatic event. Shooting the proverbial ‘shit’ like the brothers didn’t exist. Attempting to approach, Sam stepped in front of his brother. He motioned Dean to stand down. The younger Winchester prodded, “We don’t want to take up too much of your time but we’re with--”

The leader of the trio, shot up his hand, telling Sam to button it. All three farmers shot a glare at the suits in their midst. High-waist flicked his cigarette toward them, “Look whatever religion yer pushin’-- could care less bud-- we’re not yer flock, but Glen will certain’ly listen to ya as long as ya keep yer shirts off.” the man insisted, “Take a walk.”

Both brothers astounded at how merciless the leader spoke to them. The Winchesters weren’t strangers to disrespect but they hadn’t been acquainted with it right out the gate. People in Letterkenny didn’t waste words, that much had been made clear.

The Winchesters hadn’t left. Though the farmers turned back to their conversation like the brothers were already in the rearview mirror.

"Like I was sayin'," Darry hocked a loogie toward Dean’s dress shoes, “--hated Dierks anytime he came a-knockin’ Gus just started growlin'-- fit to be tied. Gus should be able to vote if he was able to call that one on arrival."

Dean jumped-- attempting to wipe his shoe off on his brother’s pants. Sam shoved him and tried to make sure they didn't break character.

The bearded farmer hummed in thought, “Wouldn’t that means Gus is omniscients?”

“Are ya both trying to sell me the yarn that Gus, as sure as God wears sandals, is psychic -- and yer still saying he shits in the living room?” High-waist further furrowed his already furrowed brow.

Darry clarified, “I’m only sayin’ Gus should have equal say since he expresses his opinions. I mean don’t old folks shit themselves all the time…?”

“I feels likes we’re glossing overs the facts that Wayne’s dog can predicts the future?”

“Gus can’t predict the future,” Darry exclaimed, trying to pull himself up in this folding chair.

Wayne pointed his bottle towards his friend, “but ya think Gus could make an intelligent an' e’thical decision on tax reform?”

“Ya think McMurray can?”

“...” Wayne stood firm, before taking a swig of his drink, “gotta let that one marinate.”

“This is the ants on seadoos debacle all overs again,” The bearded farmer concluded.

Again with cult-like unison, the farmers bellowed out, “Everyone’s a fuckin’ expert.”

Startling, the Winchester brothers weren’t expecting synchronicity. Sam tried to grab their attention again, “Gentlemen!”

“Everybody’s a fuckin’ expert!” The bearded farmer repeated harshly for emphasis.

Dean finally decided that these hicks were wasting their time. He gestured to the beard, "Elmer Fudd,"

He gestured to the other two, "fellow looney toons-- We're with wildlife conservation."

"Are ya now?" Wayne asked, "Good on ya-- either buy some vegetables or get yer car out of my laneway. Shit's jus' bad form." He jutted his chin suspiciously towards their black impala. It wasn't a typical government vehicle. With a swift motion the hick threw his drink away. But placed the bottle to the ground with the others. Wayne stood with near robotic precision. Thumbs in his belt loops he rolled his shoulders.

Oh for sure there was some kind of demon shenaniganry happening around these parts. It was certainly the weakest attempts Sam had ever seen of an entity pretending to be human. Without a second thought Sam removed a flask from his suit pocket, dousing his hand in holy water and flicking at Wayne.

Wanye faltered for a moment, then blinked. Did this Yankee just sprinkle water at him like he was house training a cat? He clicked his tongue, "Okay-- alright, okay? Wildlife conservation? Okay-- alright."

"Is that how ya say hello from yer neck of the woods?" He ran his hand over his face.

Darry chuckled, "I believe they say-- 'howdy'."

"Ten-four."

Dean clasped his hands together articulating as calmly as he could manage, "We've received complaints about a bi-pedal creature in the area attacking locals, we are looking into relocating it further into the woods, so the ecosystem… remains-- uh… orderly."

The short farmer leaned to the beard, "what's a bi-pedal? Some kind of bike?"

Sam cleared his throat, "it means that the mammal in question walked on two legs instead of four-- though rest assured many quad-peds can walk on two legs. Like bears, wolverines…"

"Canadian gooses." The bearded farmer added, as if he made an intelligent statement.

Sam felt a strained smile etch into his cheek, "yes. Exactly."

"My partner and I are going to ask you a few routine questions since you three fought off the creature."

Wanye exasperatedly probed, "and who all told ya that we fought off that there bi-pedal?" The good ol' boy had a feeling he knew who would blab about that. It wasn't that Wayne hated outsiders, but Letterkenny got on best when they took care of themselves. Wayne and his boys just did what they always did. The right thing.  
It was a symbiotic community. With strangers around they do things like give you a drive-by baptism, and not even address it.

"We're not at liberty to disclose our sources," Sam said.

"Okay… alright, okay-- wildlife conservation? Okay." Wanye aggressively bobbed his head, "Are ya liberty to tell us did they cut yer hair like reject boy band members or did ya choose that yerself?"

"Between you, me and the missing Hanson brothers, what self proclaimed 'hard-ass' drives an automatic?" Darry pointed to their car.

The bearded farmer chucked, reminiscent of the chubby cheeked smiling Santa on a coca-cola bottle. He tsked, "Youse knows that lotsa men can'ts drive sticks."

"Not any men I'd be friends with." Darry read the label on his bottle.

"Are you dissing my baby?" Dean questioned with righteous annoyance, "my baby?"

Wanye leaned against the cart, "ya do know that car isn't gonna curl toes, right? Just because it can't say no doesn't mean it's a yes, ya degen. Can't fuckin' stand it-- cars don't have gender."

"Driving stick doesn't make you gay if that's what yer worried about, big shoots," Darry assured Dean.

Wanye asserted to both of them, "don't know what ya yanks're tryna pull, but you both are working with spare parts huh?"

"Tells ya whats they're not pulling..." The bearded farmer brought out a cigarette carton.

Darry passed his bic lighter, "stick?"

"Nah, I say they pull their own sticks enough."

Sam shook his head, hearing nothing but verbal rhythm and noise, "I'm sorry--" he sighed, "did-did we do something wrong?"

"Yeah, you came up my laneway--" Wanye gestured to the car, "didn't even take me to dinner first-- it's bad form. Sort it out!"

The choir of farmers rose from their chairs,"Figure it out!"


End file.
